


Twists And Turns Will Take You Home

by Sun_Moon_Stars_Jedi



Series: Whumptober 2020 [1]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: AU for Under the Red Hood, Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Identity Reveal, Kidnapping, Mild Language, Various DC Villains - Freeform, Whumptober 2020, but still kind of fluffy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-02
Updated: 2020-10-02
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:48:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26774659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sun_Moon_Stars_Jedi/pseuds/Sun_Moon_Stars_Jedi
Summary: Bruce Wayne is used to getting kidnapped. He is used to Gotham's villains hating him.So why does this new crime lord come to his aid when he can't defend himself?
Relationships: Jason Todd & Bruce Wayne
Series: Whumptober 2020 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1968304
Comments: 25
Kudos: 441
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	Twists And Turns Will Take You Home

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first entry for the Whumptober 2020 Challenge for the prompts:  
> Day 1) Waking Up Restrained  
> Day 2) Kidnapped  
> Day 3) Forced to their Knees

Bruce is exhausted. Between the increasing unrest in the underworld of Gotham forcing him to patrol more and the renewed efforts he has spearheaded with WE to help those affected by the escalating violence of the turf wars, Bruce has barely gotten any sleep during the last weeks.

He is tired to the bone, the only thought on his mind getting home and going to bed. This mental lapse in concentration is what he will later blame for only seeing the vehicles strategically boxing his car in when it is already too late.

Traffic on the long road connecting Wayne Manor to Gotham city is usually very sparse in the evening, and Bruce could navigate the straight lane in his sleep, which is why he hadn’t really been paying that much attention to his surroundings.

That changes when an SUV suddenly screeches out of a dirt road leading into the forest, pulling in directly in front of him, and another one comes up behind him seconds later. Before any of his defensive driving training can kick in a third car pulls up next to his, ramming into his car and forcing him off the road.

Even though Bruce hadn’t been speeding the vehicle has enough momentum to flip over as it goes down into the ditch and the last thought Bruce has before the car’s side slams into a tree and he loses consciousness is _Thank god Alfred didn’t drive me tonight_.

* * *

Bruce’s whole body feels as if it is weighed down with lead when he comes to.

Each of his limbs is aching and a deep, painful throbbing stretches across his chest. He doesn’t know what it says about him that those sensations are so familiar and common in his life that it actually takes him several seconds of sorting through his memories before he remembers what happened and that these aren’t just the normal aches he’s used to from his vigilante work.

Now that he remembers though he concentrates on his surroundings, tries to gather as much information as he can before he opens his eyes and reveals to any potential guards that he is awake.

The most obvious giveaway about his situation is the fact that his arms are restrained with simple handcuffs behind his back – honestly, he must be more exhausted than he thought if he hadn’t registered those before now. He could slip them off easily enough if he broke one of his thumbs, but he was taken as Bruce Wayne, so he can’t risk escaping in such a manner - not unless the situation gets too dire and he sees no other way out alive.

He’s lying on cold, hard ground, which is presumably the stereotypical concrete floor kidnappers so love to dump their captives on. He can’t hear anyone in his immediate vicinity and when Bruce opens his eyes he has to supress the urge to roll them at the cliché bare room he finds himself in. There even is the lone lightbulb swinging over his head.

He would think his kidnappers had watched too much TV, but the perfectly executed manoeuvre they had employed to get him off the road had spoken of experience, so he is cautious not to underestimate them. No matter what level of criminal he is dealing with here, the first thing he needs is more information.

Bruce makes his way to his knees, having to wait a moment before he gets to his feet as vertigo makes his vision spin and his stomach churn. He may have gotten a light concussion in the crash, but it’s nothing he hasn’t dealt with countless times before. Once he is standing up he blinks the last of the dizziness away and then gets on with his exploration of the room.

There isn’t much to see.

The walls and floor are concrete, there are no windows or furniture and the small room is clearly in the basement of whatever building he is in. The only door is locked and made from solid metal, something even he can’t force open without the right tools.

After three circuits around the room he has to admit defeat and instead settles down across from the door, cautiously listening for any indication of who or what is waiting for him on the other side.

While he sits there he catalogues his injuries (nothing serious besides the possible concussion and the nasty bruising from the seatbelt) and his remaining possessions (his shoes, belt and suit jacket are gone, but the rest of his clothes appear untouched, including the remaining lockpick sewn into the lining of his shirt).

Overall not the worst kidnapping he ever had, although he would really like to know why he had been taken in the first place. If they just want money this should be over quite quickly, because as soon as they call in their demands Dick (and most likely Tim, even though he is not supposed to go on missions without Bruce’s permission yet) will trace back the call and get him out – if they don’t already know where Bruce is being held.

Bruce can practically hear his sons make fun of him for needing to be rescued already. Maybe he should simply call for Clark…no, that would be even worse.

He doesn’t have to wait long before he hears heavy footsteps of at least three men approach, which gives him ample time to put on a suitably wary and slightly scared expression that would be expected from Brucie Wayne in this situation.

He doesn’t recognize any of the men who come into his little cell, two of them dragging him to his feet as the third points a gun stoically at him. None of them say a word as they march him out of the room, ignoring his questions of who they are and what they want with him completely.

The fact that they don’t hurt him unnecessarily and don’t make any colourful threats of what they might do coupled with the expertly way their hands restrain him without giving him any opportunities to escape tells him that they are definitely professionals.

Which means their lack of any masks does not bode well for Bruce. Suddenly the need for a decent escape plan seems a lot more urgent than it had a few minutes ago in his cell.

They march Bruce through dank, industrial looking hallways and up a flight of stairs, finally bringing him into a big, abandoned factory hall. There are a lot more people in the room than Bruce would have anticipated and he recognizes enough of them to know that he really is in trouble this time.

All the big crime lords, mafia bosses and even gang leaders of Gotham are present, each with at least ten armed men standing guard around them, as they all eye each other with suspicion. For a brief moment Bruce wonders if they have figured out that he is Batman and have bonded together to set an end to him like this. It would be smart to attack him in his civilian identity instead of when he is out in full armour as the night’s events have clearly shown.

In front of the whole crowd stands Penguin, who seems to have just finished some grand speech and is gesturing towards Bruce with a flourish as he is shoved to his knees next to him.

Bruce lets himself appear appropriately scared under the eyes of so many criminals, looking around the room seemingly frantically as he takes in the crowd.

From the way Two Face and Maroni are staring at him, Bruce can surmise that they had no idea what Cobblepot had planned, and the rest of the criminals look just as surprised, even though it is hard to tell with Black Mask. But Bruce has enough experience reading each of them to be pretty confident in his assessment, which means this was Penguin’s plan alone.

The only person who reads anything other than surprised is one of the newer crime lords Bruce hasn’t met in person until now. He’s just as tall and intimidatingly built as the sparse witness reports Bruce has gathered over the last weeks said, but frustratingly he doesn’t know much about him yet. The only identifying feature on this new player is the metallic red helmet that had given him his name.

The tense lines of Red Hood’s body and the clenched fists at his sides speak more of anger to him than surprise, but Bruce has no idea why his appearance would illicit such an intense reaction from the crime lord. What could he have done to him, especially as Bruce Wayne, to garner such an emotional reaction?

A quick look around the room tells Bruce that he seems to be the only one who has noticed the strange behaviour from the Hood and when he looks back at him, his posture has already lost all traces of the previously clearly displayed emotions.

Quick to anger, but also very good at controlling himself. Bruce files that information away for later.

“So let me get this straight,” Maroni says slowly from the side, his tone dripping with condescension, which makes Cobblepot visibly bristle and his smug expression dim, “you wanted all of us to meet here so you could show us Bruce Wayne and you have some genius plan to use him as leverage to get what, exactly?”

Penguin straightens, tugging his jacket down as he visibly puts his showman persona back into place.

“There are two things standing in all of our way,” Cobblepot starts, shooting Maroni a derisive look, “Batman and his birds, who we all have had no luck getting rid of-“ agreeing murmurs spring up around the room and Bruce feels a flush of pride and amusement that he definitely doesn’t allow to show on his face, “-and all those rehabilitation and anti-corruption programs cleaning up the city. Do you know what they all have in common?”

There is a moment of silence but then Black Mask speaks up, and he sounds a lot more interested in whatever Penguin is proposing here than Maroni was earlier.

“They’re all bankrolled by Bruce Wayne.”

“Exactly,” Cobblepot crows.

“And what are you gonna do now with Wayne?” a mechanized voice asks and Bruce can’t be completely sure with the distortion, but he thought he heard the slightest hesitation before the Red Hood said his name. A look at the crime lord reveals nothing but cool, polished metal and a rigid posture though.

“Oh, I can think of a few things,” Black Mask says sweetly, and Bruce doesn’t need to see his eyes behind the mask to know that there is a manic glint in them.

Sionis has hated him since they were children and now that he thinks Bruce is at his mercy, he is sure that the crime lord won’t curb his sadistic tendencies. And with the way Bruce is surrounded, heavily outnumbered and without any kind of equipment, he isn’t sure if he could stop him or get out of this situation.

His best bet is to sow dissent between the different factions present. Bruce knows Gotham’s criminals and if there is one thing they are bad at, it is working together.

Before he can do anything though Black Mask has already stalked up to him, standing in front of Bruce and radiating smugness with his whole body as he looks down at Bruce. And Bruce knows he should react appropriately, act scared and intimidated, but he doesn’t want to give Sionis the satisfaction, so he simply stares back at the empty eyes behind that Mask.

His defiance is not what Sionis wants to see and without warning a backhand cracks across Bruce’s face, strong enough to make him nearly topple over.

“Hey,” Cobblepot squawks indignantly somewhere off to the side, but Black Mask only barks “Shut up” at him and he subsides. So much for Penguin being in charge of this little get together.

When Bruce rights himself again he stares pointedly back up at Sionis for a few seconds before he spits the blood from his newly split lip in front of his feet. The growl from behind the mask tells him the crime lord is appropriately enraged by his open display of defiance and Bruce has to hold back the grin that wants to spread across his face. It might not be the smartest move to antagonize one of Gotham’s most violent criminals so openly, but no one has ever called how Bruce handles the possibility of bodily harm smart.

The second hit isn’t really a surprise and this time Bruce lets himself hit the ground. His already bruised chest protests vehemently, and for a brief second after the impact he sees stars in front of eyes as he gasps to take in a breath, but now he can also roll slightly onto his back, obscuring his shackled hands from view as he begins to extract his lockpicks from his shirt.

It might not be the best move in terms of keeping his identity secret, but with this many criminals around him, many of them hostile to him as well as each other, he needs every advantage he can get.

Bruce exaggerates his gasping breaths for a few seconds to cover the sound as he rips his shirt along the seam open, and he can tell that Sionis absolutely basks in that show of weakness.

“If it’s money you want, I can pay,” Bruce says, putting a light tremble in his voice. He knows Sionis and most of the established crime bosses would never even consider such an offer, but all he really needs is for one of the other criminals to turn against the rest and then he will have the distraction he needs to get out. It isn’t elegant, but right now Bruce really doesn’t care about that.

“Whoever gets me out, I will pay you,” he goes on in a slightly too loud and rushed voice, making sure that his words cover any noise his lockpicks make as he twists them inside the handcuffs. Just a little more…

“Shut the fuck up, Wayne,” Sionis sneers, and then a vicious kick to his stomach has Bruce doubling over.

He had seen it coming and braced as best as he could, but he still loses all the breath in his lungs and frustratingly the lockpick slips from his fingers. Before he can gather himself another kick hits him, and then another and another, each new one preventing him from taking a breath.

Bruce starts to get dizzy from the lack of oxygen and even though he can vaguely make out voices calling for Black Mask to stop, the crime lord continues his vicious assault and no one steps in to stop him.

That is until a kick to Bruce’s already deeply bruised chest snaps one of his ribs with an audible crack and he can’t hold back the pained yell that tears out of him.

The next thing he knows the barrage of kicks stops and when he finally has enough breath to move and turn his watering eyes upwards from the floor, the tall figure of the Red Hood stands protectively in front of him, his back to Bruce as he faces the rest of the gathered criminals.

“What-” Black Mask growls darkly as he gets up from the floor a few feet away from them where the Hood had presumably shoved him as he moved to protect Bruce, “-do you think you’re doing, Hood?”

“Whatever the fuck I want,” Hood shoots back.

The voice coming from the helmet is without emotion, but from this close Bruce can easily tell that the man is furious, his body all sharp lines and quivering tension that is just waiting to be unleashed.

“You will regret this,” Mask snarls once he is finally upright again, wiping dust from his suit jacket in quick, sharp movements. “I will teach you some respect.”

“Please, spare me your theatrics. I’m not scared of some rich boy who’s still crying about high society ignoring him.”

Sionis is a prideful man and the Red Hood has just openly defied him and also humiliated him in front of all of Gotham’s top tier criminals. He won’t let this go and Bruce can tell from the way the Hood shifts his stance that he is also aware of this and already bracing for a fight. Though why he thinks he can win on his own against all the men now gathering at Black Mask’s side Bruce doesn’t know.

Bruce has made it up to his knees and is just shifting to his feet when Black Mask orders his men to attack and all hell breaks loose.

The sound of gunshots erupts and before Bruce can turn for cover the Red Hood has placed himself in front of Bruce, shielding him as he fires back with one hand, the other pulling Bruce up to his feet.

Bruce’s hands are still restrained behind his back, the lockpick is lost somewhere on the ground, so he shifts his hands to get enough leverage and break his left thumb when he hears a bitten back curse from the Hood and the other man stumbles back against him.

The next thing he knows smoke envelops them, the same kind his smoke bombs produce, and a strong arm suddenly curls around his middle as he is pulled against a leather jacket and body armor.

“Hold on,” the mechanized voice growls and then they shoot upwards.

For a second Bruce can’t breathe with the pressure now on his broken rib, but then he purposefully relaxes into the hold, letting the familiar feeling of being pulled up by a grapple ground him.

And it is a grapple that is pulling them up, he sees. As soon as they are in the rafters Hood expertly unhooks the line, his movements just as smooth as Bruce’s after years of practice doing the same thing every night. Just as effortless as those of the only four people Bruce ever taught his technique.

Without another word the Hood fists a hand in Bruce’s shirt and drags him over to a partially open window, getting them out of the line of fire of the furious men still shouting threats up at them. They clamber out onto a small ledge and after anther grapple they are on the neighbouring roof, sprinting across it to gain distance.

It isn’t until they are several blocks away, both breathing hard, that they finally stop. Both of them immediately turn to look back and see if they have been followed, and it feels oddly in synch to Bruce, nearly as if he had Dick standing next to him.

When they are both assured that they have no pursuers to worry about Bruce turns back to face his rescuer and finds the dark lenses of the smooth, red helmet already staring at him. Bruce doesn’t know why, but in this moment he feels more exposed and vulnerable than he ever did back in that factory surrounded by criminals.

“Thank you,” Bruce says when long seconds have passed with both of them just staring at each other. The Hood visibly bristles at that, shoulders going stiff, but he doesn’t say anything, so Bruce continues. “You didn’t have to help me and I appreciate what you did.”

Still no reply. Just clenched fists and a near imperceptible tremble that runs through Hoods entire body.

Something is going on here, but Bruce can’t tell what it is. He did get the impression that Hood had genuinely wanted to protect him, but why is he now acting so wary, almost scared even?

Brucie Wayne is not a threat to him, especially with one of them still bound and the other in possession of several weapons.

“Would you mind opening these cuffs?” Bruce asks after several more seconds of silence, turning slightly to give the other man better access to his hands.

He doesn’t trust him, for that he still has too little information about the man behind the helmet, but there had been ample opportunities for the Hood to hurt Bruce and he hasn’t taken any of them, so he is reasonably certain that he can turn his back to him for a moment.

It takes the other man several seconds to react before he finally nods jerkily at Bruce, moving behind him with careful steps, his eyes, as far as Bruce can tell, never leaving him. He opens the cuffs quickly, his skill with a lockpick impressive in a way that makes Bruce’s chest ache because it reminds him so much of the witty little boy with quick fingers he picked up in an alley and lost in a warehouse.

When his hands are freed and the Hood hurriedly moves back away from him as if he can’t stand to be this close to Bruce he sees a flash of red against the brown of the leather jacket and suddenly Bruce remembers the way the Hood had stumbled earlier.

“You’ve been shot,” Bruce points out, eyes focusing on the dark patch of blood staining the other man’s upper arm that he can now faintly make out in the darkness. He automatically takes a step forward, hands reaching for the injury. “Let me help-“

He doesn’t get to finish his sentence as the Hood takes a frantic step back, practically flinching from his hands even though he had been nowhere near enough to touch him yet.

“Don’t pretend like you care,” Hood says and Bruce is sure if his voice wasn’t distorted the words would be hissed in fury at him.

Bruce’s hands drop and he stops, rooted to the spot, because that reaction doesn’t make any sense.

“I can look after myself, I don’t need your pity,” Hood goes on, entirely oblivious to Bruce’s mounting confusion. Now that he has started speaking it seems he can’t stop himself though.

“The magnanimous Bruce Wayne, helping those in need. What a load of bullshit. You don’t care about anyone but yourself. Everyone around you is just a tool to be used, expandable in your crusade, easy to replace. You don’t have to pretend with me, I know who you really are, deep inside. So just fuck off before I change my mind and hand you back over to Black Mask.”

Hood is breathing hard at the end of his rant and Bruce is just staring at him, too stunned to react for a moment. His mind is already busy analysing those words though, and the conclusions he comes to are chilling and heart-breaking and impossible.

But once the thought has entered his brain it doesn’t want to leave.

“Why did you rescue me then?” Bruce asks, his voice sounding far away as he has to remind himself that smoke bombs aren’t something only he and his family members use.

“Because I had other plans for you.”

“What plans?” Bruce asks, his mind replaying the way Hood had used the grapple exactly like Bruce does, and it gets harder for him to hold back the hope that wants to overtake him, even though he knows it will crush him if he allows it to take root and it proves false.

“As if I’m stupid enough to tell you.”

“Why won’t you let me help you?” Bruce asks, taking in the tall, muscled figure in front of him, wondering what hides behind the helmet and thinking _Could it really be?_

“I already told you,” Hood snaps back, but Bruce doesn’t listen to the words, because all he can see now is a twelve-year-old boy, standing in front of him with the same rigid posture, terrified but still standing his ground against the Batman.

“Please let me help you, Jason,” Bruce says softly.

For a horrible, terrifying moment Bruce thinks he was wrong. Hood doesn’t react, standing stock still, seemingly not even breathing, and Bruce feels like he is being ripped open, the pain just as bad as it had been all those years ago in Ethiopia.

Then Hood practically crumbles in front of him, all the tension leaving his body, and he stumbles back a few steps as if his legs nearly give out under him.

“How did…no that wasn’t how…you weren’t supposed to-“

The Hood, _Jason_ , is barely able to string two words together and Bruce feels such a dizzying mix of joy and happiness and confusion overtake his mind he isn’t sure he would do much better.

Therefore he doesn’t even try to speak, suddenly feeling such a deep need to prove to himself beyond a doubt that this is really his son, that Jason is alive even though he held his son’s corpse in his own arms for hours, unable to let him go, so he simply steps closer, stretching a hand out carefully towards him.

Hood freezes, standing as still as a statue as Bruce slowly closes the distance between them. When he doesn’t voice any protest or step back Bruce lays his hand on his uninjured arm, feeling the warmth of his living, breathing son through the layers of clothing.

Bruce carefully reaches up towards the helmet and once again he isn’t stopped, so he feels around for the hidden catches and then finally lifts it up.

Familiar blue eyes tinged with an unexpected ring of pulsing, glowing green stare back at him. The jawline has matured, there are faint scars he doesn’t recognize and a white streak offsetting the dark hair he has never seen before, but he would know his son everywhere.

“Jay,” he forces out in a voice suddenly choked with tears, “it’s really you.”

He can’t hold himself back any longer and he pulls Jason into his arms, holding him like he will never let go again, burying his face in Jason’s hair as tears start to make their way down his cheeks. Jason is stiff in his embrace, but he is breathing and warm and **alive**.

Tentative arms eventually reach around Bruce and return the hug, lightly at first but the grip gets stronger until they are both clinging equally desperately to each other.

“I’ve missed you so much,” Bruce murmurs into Jason’s hair, pulling back only far enough so he can press a kiss into the dark curls. “I love you so much, Jay.”

He hears a choked sob and the heaving breaths he feels against his chest are enough to tell him his son is also crying now.

“I’m so sorry I didn’t save you. I’m so, so sorry.”

It takes a long time until Jason calms down and Bruce holds him the entire time. His broken rib aches and his bruises pulse in protest, but that is nothing in comparison to the elation of having his son back in his arms.

When Jason finally pulls back Bruce lets him, but only so far that he can still hold his shoulders, unwilling to let his son go now that he has miraculously gotten him back. Bruce knows he should be concerned about the how, knows the dead don’t come back without there being a steep price to pay, but for now he simply wants to enjoy this moment.

He lets his eyes sweep over the grown up features of his son, cataloguing what has changed and what has stayed the same. His gaze falls to the blood coating Jason’s arm and for a brief moment panic surges up inside him, the image of his son’s body beaten and broken before his eyes, but he quickly realizes that it is only a graze and Jason will be fine.

His son will be _fine_.

“B,” Jason starts, voice hoarse and eyes red-rimmed from crying. Bruce doesn’t think he himself looks that much better. He waits, but Jason doesn’t have anything else to say, simply staring at him with those unfamiliar blue-green eyes.

“Let’s get you home, Jaylad,” Bruce says, squeezing his shoulders, careful to avoid his son’s injury.

“I can’t go back,” Jason starts, and the exhaustion that had overtaken him after his emotional breakdown suddenly begins to shift into frantic anxiety. “You don’t know what I’ve done, I don’t belong-“

“You are my son,” Bruce says, cutting Jason off in a firm voice. “You’re my son and nothing will ever change that. You will always belong with your family, Jay, no matter what you have done. Let me take you home, please.”

For a moment Bruce isn’t sure if he convinced him but then Jason nods. The movement is small and hesitant and Bruce feels like a piece that has been missing inside him is finally put back into place, making him whole again.

“Okay,” Jason agrees softly, giving Bruce a tentative smile that makes him forget the pain still pulsing through his body as joy, so deep and pure like nothing he has ever felt before, warms him from deep inside.

“I’d like to go home.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not sure if this was really whumpy enough for Whumptober, but I just can't resist a fluffy happy end.  
> Hope you still enjoyed it =D
> 
> If you'd like to chat, here is a link to [my Tumblr](https://sun-moon-stars-jedi.tumblr.com/).


End file.
